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CUBA

Galloping on horses through seas of lush green tobacco plants and past the Mogoté mountain forms to thundering waterfalls. Being serenaded by the seductive swirls of Salsa and sipping colourful margaritas at Hemingway's old haunts in Havana. We are among the fortunate ones having been able to mingle at depth within the pleasant culture and stunning landscape of this country torn: Colonization/occupation and the centuries of war and turmoil which is their marriage, Slavery and the sugar boom, "Independence" with it's internal struggles for power, and decades of communist dictatorship. Even more the miracle that Cubans hold their heads high with a smile and an outstretched hand of welcome.
We were introduced, wide eyed, to Havana at New Years. Like something out of a children's story book: huge old cars that shouldn't still run, but do, a walled city adorned with cannons, groups of dark faces banding together to create a sound that makes you smile; the salsa that is synonymous with Cuba, and the people that can move to this music like they were fish, swimming since birth.
The lost money from our return flight to Canada was a great exchange for the months of grassroots travel throughout Cuba. Although transportation was our, and is everyone's daily nightmare, it was also a gift in many cases; forcing upon us more intimacy with the people and places of Cuba. We rode trains that left days late, had windows so dirty light barely passed, and bathrooms it pained you to walk by. They screeched and rattled through boundless fields of sugarcane which extended until they became the blazing blue sky at the horizon. They spewed out clouds of smoke and allowed in smiling mongers of delightful cheeses, ice cold root-borne beverages, and tantalizing home-made sweets. They stopped randomly, pausing as if to consider the best choice of route, as though it were an option, affording us time to wander nearby hills and villages, and smile back upon this ancient rusted snake so out-of-place, a welcomed blight on the serene landscape.
Otherwise it was busses; sweating bodies slip sliding off of each other, jostling for the extremely insufficient space; but once those doors were closed with you on board, the world was a happy place. Everyone was happy. Or it was dump-trucks with people clambering in from every angle, passing up bags, babies, animals and even animal parts. The lack of transport creates unimaginable chaos throughout the country. It is enforced, near cities at least, that all vehicles travel at full occupancy, therefore aiding slightly in the resolve of this issue. Bicycles are a major mode of transport, both personal and public. Of course a licence must be purchased from the government, and dividends paid, for a person to use their bicycle as a taxi.
So through the help of all of these we were taken to beaches where we camped free, of both monetary and of safety concerns. Wether it is inherent or enforced, these people (outside the major cities and tourist areas especially) are kind, compassionate and void of sinister values. We swung in hammocks, sparkles dancing on the ocean, it's warm breeze rocking us to sleep as the gentle waves lapped at the fringes of the white-sand beaches. We drank rum with the locals, entrenched ourselves in their hearts and in their rituals of music, dance and laughter. We partook of any festivals we could. Homes and bars and restaurants became public streets, became masses, became euphoric. All moving in rhythm to the undercurrent of Salsa which swings out across the country on every waft of air. They would take turns, dance-off's, each couple the best we've ever seen, like what we see in the movies. They would grab hold of us, not shyly, swing us, and not laugh but understand that this is not our natural born talent.
Women would lead me, show me how to lead them, and encourage us as a couple to keep up to them as though it were actually possible in the here and now. Everyone smiled and laughed and oozed a festive energy. The women dressed sexily, the men were all sharp. Everyone's clothes, and hair, and nails were perfect, I have no idea how they afford it. As though any of them had money they would treat us, and be proud that they did, giving us samples of their culture. Feelings that only a memory can hold, and could never have the same effect on paper.
People fished for us, guided us, translated for us, took us to their families and cooked for us, taught us of their ways, and explained to us their hardships. They are a people frustrated by their lack of freedom and opportunity. They silently plead for a measure of anarchy. They are given health, education, and basic food staples. They can exist but they may not excel. A stark contrast to any society I have seen with its obtrusive have's and have not's. Are they better off? Some Cubans say they are, others cry out for the freedom to move, to earn, to change. I wrote two poems while I was there.

CUBANOS

Held back from most things
But not from hope
Heads held high
Just trying to cope
Restrictions outnumber
The liberties they're shown
And the material they hold
They don't even own
Stripped of their freedom
And left without choice
Being spoken for
By one militant voice
Much more the amazement
That these people still smile
As they sweep their clean streets
And receive their bread single file
Their rations of food
Far from sufficient
Forced to use dollars
Which are for most nonexistent
The country makes money
And one man hordes it
Simple pleasures sit taunting
As so few can afford it
Though never kinder nor gentler
People I've met
The wholeness of greed
Hasn't swallowed them yet
With open arms they welcome all races
To eat in their homes
To take us new places
The charm of these people
Is offered with grace
So honest and polite
They share a unified space
A unique style of music
And the dance to match it
Their energy's contagious
It's hard not to catch it
I hope for these people
That they'll get what they pray for
And that the welcome mat's never taken
From the foot of each door tb

CAIBARIÉN
A man sits alone in his rocking chair
The tv calling him in
His world is not his own
His eyes are tired and sad
He has seen enough of this street
This TV
All that is not his own
His family is his joy
But even this pains him
Is it not unfair to bring more people
into the same situation of livelihood?
When does it end?
That is his one flickering hope
Distant but alive
Will I survive to see it?
What's to come for my children?
My grandchildren?
I pray, more than this street
This seat
These walls that are not their own
I pray tb

We also moved around Cuba by boat. We got on an American yacht at Santiago de Cuba as crew and sailed for two weeks around the eastern horn of the island, stopping in at little ports and places virtually inaccessible by land. Long days floating across Earth's liquid surface, being pushed by her breath, eating of her body. I love sailing, while being one of the most powerful, the ocean is also one of the most peaceful things I know.
We sauntered lazily along cobblestone streets. Each of them boasting a unique expression of art. A local talent of the ladies was the intricate weaves of white linen often adorned with bright colours and lace-like attributes. These stunning cloths they made into table coverings, curtains, clothes, wall hangings and simply used anywhere as art. The carvings and woodworks were no less of a wonderment. They expressed individual patience, craftsmanship and creativity, as did the tobacconists, hand rolling their own cigars. There were grand open theatres with daily light and music shows for tourists. Each town had a Casa de la Trova, a house of local musical talent, which had bands belting out nightly euphonies.
In any city across the country one can walk down the streets at any time of day and have the pleasure of Salsa music ringing from a radio, club, or street-corner band.
After nearly two months of taking in all that we could of this beautiful country, sadly our time in Cuba was expiring. Back in Havana we got ourselves onto another yacht as crew. This time with some Canadians heading for the United States. We had intended just to reach Miami and fly from there but in the end we all worked so well together that we sailed to North Carolina with them and the skipper gave us a lift back Kingston, Ontario. My brother picked us up there and we were home.
Cuba plays often on my thoughts making me smile: When I play my music from there, when I look upon my carvings and my art from there, when I notice someone enjoying a Havana Club rum, or see an advertisement for one of their many world class cigars, and especially when I visit a Salsa club to practice their most famous national art form. But I also think of them when I notice in the news pictures and stories of Cubans risking their lives and all else just for a shot at freedom. I realise what we have and what they have, and the differences speak volumes, but it is hard to say how the country will change if Communism is abandoned. I'm sure, like most, they will be sorted into ‘haves' and ‘have-nots', an ever grown gap. I wish the best for Cuba and the wonderful Cuban people.

tb